There is a picture of me in the 8th grade that I want to burn. Unfortunately, even if I did just that, it will forever be immortalized in the yearbook of ’88-89.
It was the only time in my life that my hair was permed. A dirty blonde, thick head of permed, frizzy hair. In some ways it was a concerted effort to veil my face. Hide behind those zits that were shockingly pink and diamond patterned, much like the sweater I wore for school pictures. I am not sure what I was thinking. Wearing that sweater on that day, never mind wearing it ever.
What I wore on the bottom that day is anybodies guess. It very well could have been a pair of jeans that made my “ass look like a hippopotamus” as one of the ‘popular’ (and fashionable) girls points out after I had been happily wearing them for one full year. Pretending I could care less what she thinks, I laugh with her (and at myself I suppose). Afterwards, I promptly go out and buy myself a new pair of jeans. A skin tight pair of acid wash jeans. That’ll show her.
What the hell was I thinking?
Actually, I was thinking that it was about time I kissed a boy. So I wore them out to a school dance where the boy I had a crush on gaped and said he’d never seen me in such tight clothes before. Or maybe he said he’d never seen anyone in such tight clothes before.
At any rate, once I see his eyes bulge out and mouth gape open, I figure I would finally get to 1st base. Instead, I stand on the sidelines and glare as he rounds 1st, 2nd and 3rd base with a 9th grade whore whose boobs (much to my envy) could fill two baseball mitts.
Later that night, back home in the comfort and security of my bedroom, I sob at my broken heart. Then I spend the next hour trying to peel these damn jeans off. My sobs quickly turn into hysterical giggles as I wiggle, hold my breathe, contort and shimmy, all in attempts at shedding these absurd jeans. Forget straightjacket’s Criss Angel, show me a smooth exit from the too-tight-jean in less than 30 seconds and I will be impressed (or Mindfreaked if you will…)
In a somewhat embarrassing confession, that has probably not been my worst fashion decision in my life. There was the white tights with silk skirt, not when I was 8 years old, but 18 and in college. The zip off pant-legs and tshirt worn for 5 months consecutively while backpacking. Or the tank top I discovered deep in my closet not too long ago. Pink, tie-dye with a softer pink lace trimming. Seriously. There are just so many things wrong with that- pink and tie-dye is bad enough. But with lace? What is wrong with me?
It has been at least two years since I’ve been shopping (not including maternity wear) and it is past due. I am desperate for clothes. But I am scared. I need help. Sure, I may finally grasp that tie-dye and acid wash are never appropriate, but that does not mean that I will not fall victim to the horizontal stripe (over my already wide hips), teenage bling or fur trims. Those stores, with the false lighting, super sales racks and lying sales clerks lure me in every time. I lose any sense I may have had and purchase that rhinestone adorned shirt that is just slightly too big but it’s 50% off so what the hell.
But the time has come and I must head to the big bad mall. My checklist does not include any must-have items because I do not really know what is must-have. What my checklist does have is a list of must-nots.
-skinny pants because you are not 12 and/or anorexic
-tie-dye and acid wash-not even at 50% off you lunatic!
-any shirt showing any midriff
-jeans with pockets on the ass (cuz your ass already sticks out enough)
-elastic anything (oh how I miss you maternity clothes! Simple, comfortable, stretchy… sigh.)
-anything even close to 80’s-ish- i know it may in style right now but it will not look in style on you. it will look like you are still in the eighties. cut out above picture to take with you if you need to remember how you did NOT get along with the eighties.
-clingy. you do not have a clingy body. you have an okay body with bumps.
-not too small. not too large.
That’s not my shirt… it is too loose and makes you look like a man.
That’s not my shirt… it is too tight (aka trampy and besides, it shows your stretchmarks when you lift your arms)
Oh, That’s my shirt… it has room for my breasts and my belly and is not see-through at all!
Ehem, sorry, Kaya has a book something along the lines of this called “That’s Not my Dinosaur… it’s tail is too fuzzy.”
Well, my list is in hand and it is time to embark on this journey. I will consider the trip a success only if:
1. Hippo and ‘you/me’ are not uttered in the same sentence EVER.
2. I can dress and undress while standing… and breathing.
3. There is no post here in the next month entitled “What was I thinking?!”
Change-rooms and fluorescent lights are evil so please wish me much strength and sanity.